


I don't need anyone

by hummingrightalong



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Canon, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 00:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hummingrightalong/pseuds/hummingrightalong
Summary: Angst prompt from glitterhydra on tumblr. Also based on a "BITE model" post I made recently.This got pretty dark.Grant's childhood, Garrett's brainwashing.Why Grant left home, and how he came to be so loyal to John Garrett.





	I don't need anyone

This is a mission. That’s clear from day one. Even before he met John, he had his life mapped out. Finally, he had plans. Plans that his mother, Christian, hell (and he’d never admit this aloud) *Thomas* couldn’t derail.

Those plans hadn’t always included SHIELD. Not that they were exactly a secret. Rather he never saw himself in the military, or any version of it.

It was a whim really, the first time he tried to talk the case workers and law enforcement involved in the latest of a string of petty (and not so petty) crimes. He remembers looking from his mother, to his father, and back again; wondering if Thomas would really be ok- or better off- with him gone, Grant asks to be sent to a program. It’d help him sort out these impulses, help him find a direction for these dangerous tendencies. 

The judge is intrigued. Not only is it clear that Grant’s suggestion is being considered, he’s complimented on ‘taking the future seriously for once’. Part of his rages at that, wants to screw it up just for the sake of it. He’s familiar with that urge. There’s a good chance the impulse to fuck up his life, and thereby everyone else’s ten-fold, is hereditary. It sure as fuck doesn’t come from his old man.

Jack Ward is more than the highly respected politician in a long line of the same. He’s a decorated hero, a former military man. He’s the first to tell his sons never to bother enlisting. To stay the fuck away from the military at all costs. There’s more to be done in politics. He never met the highest of offices when he gave that advice either. He meant that finding yourself a position you’re good at, where you can do some good, is more important than all the reputation and perks, anything else that’d come from campaigning for a higher office.

Somehow Jack knew SHIELD, knew *about* them years before they were publicly acknowledged. Certainly, areas of the government dealt with them, not only aware of them but constantly engaging in what Jack would call ‘glorified turf wars’. A never ending struggle for power and control; a string of proposed sanctions to be sure that the shadow agency didn’t have the rights to act too often in the shadows. 

The old man didn’t recommend signing up for that mess either. His middle child agreed. Fuck that noise. 

Dad was proud of him, sometimes. When he came home with good grades, like any parents, he was happy to hear about it. Jack was hardly ever waiting inside their huge home on a school day, pinning report cards to the fridge or any fantasy bullshit like that. But he’d make a point of comparing the boys’ overall school year’s accomplishments. 

Well, Christian and Grant were always compared. Both of their parents were hard on them at times, and spent plenty of effort seemingly pitting them against one another. Neither boy needed that kind of encouragement. They’d been at war most of their lives. 

At least since Thomas had come around. 

Something about Thomas was different. Special. Their mother never allowed a hair on his sweet head to be harmed. Even that felt like a game, though. A game that no one was winning. Maybe mother, maybe. But the way she treated herself, the example she set, wasn’t exactly instilling respect and love from her boys. 

Alright, that wasn’t entirely true either. Christian thought the world revolved around her. His jealousy knew no bounds. Neither did his efforts to push away, to punish anyone who might get too close to her.

Grant never had a desire to. He’d always admired his dad. A hero. A good guy. Maybe he got things done the wrong way, and maybe he sat in his office (when he was home) and laughed about how easy it was to get just about anything he desired past either ‘side’. “There’s no such thing as sides,” he used to say. “Never forget that. There’s barely good and evil. This life, your entire purpose in it, is to do your fucking best. Sounds easy, right? Well, it is. It would be, anyway. If it weren’t for fucking people. They’ll always be there to screw shit up. So you have to stay one step ahead of them. Lie and cheat if you’ve got to. If you get away with it, you’re probably doing ok by the universe or the gods or greater good. Whatever the hell any of that matters.”

Jack Ward never had much time for his kids. He’d do his best, and at a certain point when Grant was a teenager he realized that Jack had a strong preference for at least one of them. But the family had to be united, had to be the perfect picture. Just like his parents had done before him. 

He’d set in place all the advantages and plenty of people responsible for keeping an eye out. That included the perfect wife.

She had her preferences too. It never made any sense to Grant why that was Thomas, but it saved him some trouble. Christian put the most effort into bending the rules, or just blaming any trouble Thomas suffered on Grant. 

It wasn’t hard. Grant had always been a difficult child. Intelligent, hard working, and a bit stuck up about it all, most of his teachers had their fair share of complaints. So did anyone responsible for keeping an eye on him for more than a few minutes. If he ever had lasting friendships as a child, they were quickly cut down by the parents of said acquaintances. 

Grant Douglas Ward took the blame for more than his fair share. Really, it was easier than arguing. And somewhere, deep down, he must’ve been *trying* to get himself into the kind of trouble that would eventually land him in the sort of trouble that, strangely enough, would get SHIELD’s attention. 

***

John Garrett wastes no time explaining the rules. If Grant weren’t the type that just has to challenge authority, even to his detriment, he would have listened quietly and left it at that. 

That wasn’t the sort of recruit Agent Garrett had picked up, though. No secret to the hardened specialist eager to pass on his skills- and a bit more- to this ‘troubled’ young man. 

Desirable qualities, obviously. Questioning, challenging, and naturally skilled. That was what his superior from military school had reported. The man was trusted, respected, and practically had a direct line to SHIELD if one of the ‘fixer-uppers’ training under him showed potential. Rare in itself. 

“Boy, I hope you appreciate your current situation. Because, damn, if you didn’t ruin some lives.” Grant remembers trying to decipher through the older man’s expression if this was a joke or an exaggeration. 

“Sir?” The laughter in reply is shockingly loud, and to the casual observer, was over-the-top phony. Grant would soon learn that one of John’s defense mechanisms/tactics (depending on who you asked and what the Agent wanted them to know) was a disarming kind of charm. The kind of charm that makes you feel like you need a shower almost as soon as he’s out of sight. That was literally his entire persona. At least the part of it he offered freely to friends and colleagues. 

“That fella, the one that set you loose from that overpriced, glorified daycare center they called military school?” Grant nods, as if it can be seen on the dark side roads they’ve been coasting on for what must be hours now. “You know what kind of career ruining shit you got him into don’t ya?” 

“I can imagine.” Grant replied through gritted teeth, turning his head and doing his best to casually stare out into the blackness from his window. 

The truck screeches to a halt. “What’s that now?” Garrett asks, completely still, his lip curling in what could be a snarl or a shit-eating grin. John’s ‘I can’t wait for you to decide to piss me off’ expression should be patented.

“Yes. Yeah- I mean, I know what trouble he could be in but I hope-”

“Are you fucking dim? Nothing I read about you warned me about that.” Grant Ward- cadet, recruit, whatever he was meant to be now- hopes his new superior will go on. But no, he’s going to make him isn’t he?

“None of it is anyone’s fault but mine.” Garrett snorts a laugh. “Really! And you damn well know it, if you’re so experienced!”

“I know how the real world works kiddo. You’ve got a lot to learn. Figured after all your family did to fuck you, you’d know the universe’s number one priority. You have to get out ahead of it. Get yours first. A mistake you made, as well as your last superior.”

“This is me getting mine first.” Grant counters quickly. Avoiding the nuances of the previous statement, the 17 year old reaches behind them to touch a simple cooler full of the first stages of his new life. 

As if disappearing in a grand explosion from his cell wasn’t enough, the SHIELD agent that had been in charge of his retrieval had spent the last few days drawing blood from the kid. They’d stored it in the truck, John not saying a word about it and Grant not daring to ask, for several days. The young man had a good idea what it would be used for though. It wasn’t so much that he was ‘excited’, as he felt a weight lifted from his chest. A weight no man could lift on his own. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when they stop in a remote area and gear up.

The scene appears grizzly enough to satisfy any investigation. Signs of struggle, enough blood to suggest someone didn’t walk away from this, and the wreckage of the truck after they push it into a ravine ought to satisfy any investigators. As if they’d try very hard to retrieve him. Even if his family believed he’d been kidnapped and hadn’t willingly escaped somehow. 

Christian would have all sorts of imagined scenarios to supply if asked. He’d done enough the night Grant had been arrested. 

***

Just a few more days and he’d be done with the program. Knowing that, and having the support of the previously burnt out head of the program Grant had found himself in, was almost enough to ignore the call. 

But he knew he couldn’t leave it alone. He knew just as well as Thomas knew that he’d answer. Come and rescue him. 

What could he do that a neighbor, their grandparents, the police couldn’t?

Grant knew the answer to that question too. The Ward boys weren’t the only kids in town to report someone in that household to various authorities, outreach programs, to no avail. The perks of being a wealthy, respected family. The trouble with sharing blood with Senator Ward. The man of the house was not only well known, but feared. 

In the past, Grant’s small time criminal activities had been brushed off by the local cops. He’d rarely seen a courtroom or a case worker. Even when he did at least one poor sucker from those offices regretted following standard procedure.

Still, there’s always a line. Grant had found it, the point where daddy gave up on saving him. Or maybe he just thought true consequence would be better in the long run for his middle child. Only once had Jack tried to ask Grant *why* he acted this way, and just as anyone else who had tried to help, to understand, he’d met a brick wall staring back at him. They didn’t look a lot alike (only Christian took after their dad physically) but Jack had sighed and taken a small comfort in knowing that the kid he’d had most hope for took after him in stubbornness at least. 

His mother was livid when he’d been sent away to ‘straighten out’. Outwardly, it was difficult to understand why. She wasn’t typically easy on the boys when they found themselves in trouble. It’s just that her punishment methods were not widely known outside of the family, and varied amongst the children. 

Rumor had it that she had been the harshest on the rarely mentioned (and as far as the public was concerned, all but erased) fourth sibling. Wherever she was, their sister had been living elsewhere. Lucky her. She must have really disappointed the bitch. Or perhaps she just had nothing to offer their mother. 

Some of the scandalous details were on Christian’s word, a known pathological liar. Try telling that to the school guidance counselor when yet another peer dropped out and moved away thanks to Christian’s actions, his sole advice on the matter of who had been guilty and what should be done.

If he were to be completely impartial, Grant wouldn’t even blame his older brother for the strife inside the family. It was especially unbearable when their father was away- which was most of the time. The eldest (that still lived with them anyway) hated Jack, was constantly trying to split up the family. His efforts made little sense, at least not until Grant was old enough to understand why his brother was viciously jealous of Grant and Thomas…and Jack. Christian might’ve been jealous of their father more than anything. 

The inescapable truth became obvious to Grant long after he’d learned to hate Christian. He should feel sorry for him, he should try to reason with him and show him that their mother didn’t *love* any of them. That was impossible. Probably always had been. There were only a few years between them, but enough that she’d definitely gotten her hold on the eldest Ward brother. 

***

Grant’s memories are foggy. There’s times when he swears he’s made this up, to justify his mistakes in youth, to just plain be dramatic. Was he just looking for attention, for love, or pity? Maybe. He’d never ask anyone, never risk an investigation. Grant bore the brunt of the pain, the punishment, from his mother and brother. 

She didn’t hit him. Hell, he’d seen her hit Christian, almost strike Thomas at least once (despite her preference and rules). Never Grant. 

It had begun innocently enough. That’s the way Grant would remember it for the rest of his life. One of his earliest memories; his parents getting ready for some big charity event. Their mother was already three sheets to the wind. Jack was trying to keep his voice low, even, as he demanded she get her shit together. Her bubbling laughter, the sound of various bottles and jars hitting the floor. Both parents swearing. Then screaming at each other. 

Tommy was very little then, hardly aware that a fight was breaking out in the next room. Still, without remembering evidence of this, being able to prove why he recalls *knowing* that those fights always spilled over, Grant desperately felt the need to diffuse it. 

So he quietly slipped into his parents’ bedroom. Jack was dressed, pacing and cursing his wife. If anyone responsible for them had ever curbed their language the kids might not understand what the adults were calling each other, accusing each other of. 

The fight had escalated from a simple complaint about just how late they were going to be. Soon Jack had realized just why it was taking his wife so long to put herself together. He’d been distracted several times; putting Thomas to bed because his mother was too drunk, sending Christian away when he stormed in and demanded that *nobody* speak to his mommy that way. That seemed to amuse her enough, and she agreed with Jack when he ordered Christian to stay in his room until his parents were ready to leave. 

Neither of them stopped Grant, however. He slipped in, took up a seat next to his mother in front of the vanity table after gathering up the expensive cosmetics that littered the floor at her feet. She genuinely smiled sweetly down at him, pushing aside the bottle of liquor she was swigging from. 

She’d looked in the mirror, winced at her appearance, and began instructing her son in the finer points of painting yourself up to look like the trophy wife she was meant to be. “I’m not very good at it.” She’d whispered, or at least attempted to. Jack had rolled his eyes and stormed off to make some calls, tell their driver to keep the car running a little longer. 

Pointing to a sketch tucked into the edge of her mirror, his mother had praised him for his attention to detail. Astounding skills for a boy his age. A real natural talent. He’ll feel like a fool as soon as he’s old enough to know better, but at the time he was flattered. Grant never stopped sketching, but as soon as he was out of the house for good he never shared a single work with another soul. 

“Tell me how, momma.” Little Grant had asked, pride swelling, and feeling as if he’d discovered his purpose in life. He always seemed to be able to just sit in Jack’s home office and listen, even if he didn’t quite understand yet, to his professional troubles, to the weight of the world he felt on his shoulders, and somehow lead him to a solution even if he never spoke a word. If he could salvage that night by helping his mother fix her makeup, then what a small price to pay. 

There was little trouble in it at first, as he took her instructions. Eventually, mother needed help zipping into her dress. Again it was simple, and as time ticked on by, she became a bit less rambling and clumsy, even changing her mind on the dress a few times. She asked what went best with the makeup, making Grant laugh. As if he knew? But the choice they ultimately made together looked perfect, and she’d be receiving compliments (as would her husband) on how lovely she was for the entire evening. 

Jack still hadn’t returned when Mrs. Ward took her son’s hands in her own, placing them on her knees and tenderly pushing them up her thighs. When they meet the hemline of her dress together, she looks down and meets his eyes, expression serene and approving. She nods, as if giving him permission, while she applies more pressure to the slow upward motion. Just under the hemline, she squeezes, indicates that she wants him to keep the pressure of his small fingers against her thighs. 

Her hands continue upward, pushing the edge of the dress over her hips as she does so. She hooks her fingers into a frilly pair of panties and slides them down until they meet Grant’s hands. Stopping, she waits, expression becoming harsh. There’s an obvious warning flashing in her eyes. As if her son has dared defy any reasonable household rules by not immediately understanding what she wants in this moment. It doesn’t feel right, that’s the best he can describe it when he recalls it later. 

At the time all he felt was his heart racing, his hearing amplified to superhuman levels. Grant is well aware that Jack is downstairs, calmed down enough to share a laugh with the driver as they joke about this happening every time the Wards were expected to appear at an important event- especially if it was their own damn charity fundraiser. They ought to be there already, definitely before the guests began to arrive. Some things never changed. 

Grant doesn’t hate his father for this. He wishes for a few more moments, doesn’t want daddy to walk in on this. Instinctively he knows that it’d cause the kind of fight he couldn’t fix. The kind of fight that might split up the family. He starts to wonder where he and his siblings would live if their parents divorced. From what he’s heard, fathers rarely end up with custody. Not even with all the family money and fancy lawyers backing him. If Jack even wanted them in the end. 

Better to avoid the whole thing, right?

Grant feels like a rabbit in a trap, unable to break eye contact as he helps his mother shimmy out of her panties. There’s footsteps on the stairs, amusement in Jack’s voice when he calls out. “Are you ready now?” 

Momma shoves the garment into Grant’s hand, shoos him out of the room as she smoothes down the dress.

***

How does he know? 

He fucking doesn’t. Just reading too much into those words, Grant. Don’t give up more than you have to.

“You’re too quiet. Don’t you have questions? Some shit? This may be your only chance.” Agent Garrett is scolding him, judging him. Wouldn’t want this man to second guess you, Grant tells himself, already disappointed in his performance. Clearly he’s like an open book, out of practice and already forgetting anything and everything he’d learned through the bullshit he’d just escaped, and the training he’d received that he definitely didn’t deserve. 

“I’m just wondering…isn’t there anything SHIELD can do for-” The teen is cut off with a laugh. 

“Asking for favors already? I think you’ve gotten more than your fair share of those. I’m sure you agree with me, rich boy. Silver spoon or not, you can think for yourself. That’s for damn sure. Saw what you did to that house of yours. I mean…ya missed the target. I think. Unless I’m missing part of the master plan.”

“I fucked up. Tell me how to make it up. To you at least, tell me how to prove myself.” Garrett raises an eyebrow. There’s a long silence. “Well?” Grant shrieks. 

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” The agent commands through gritted teeth. He’s quiet again, throwing some gear at the kid. Garrett loads up with his own pack, some other essentials, and chews on a protein bar that looks and sounds as tough as a chunk of gravel. Grant digs around in the same pocket he watched the man get his rations from in his own pack, considers skipping it but knows he’ll need the strength. It’s worse than it seems, but his superior isn’t complaining so he’s determined not to either. 

They set up a campsite. It’s late. Honestly, after the trip so far the teenager could pass out as soon as they’ve got a fire going and some basic shelter set up. That’s when the SHIELD agent perks up suddenly.

Garrett spends most of the night telling stories by the fire of his exploits as an agent and before. Sounds pretty impressive. The kind of guy Grant had come to aspire to be just like some day. If he’d ever thought he was cut out for politics, he’d have wanted to be just like his father. But towards the end, he’d started to resent, maybe even hate the guy. 

After all, just when his troubled son was getting his life together he’d failed to keep the rest of the family together- maybe even fix the problems at home the way Grant never could. The teen had learned not everything was on his shoulders, that his parents should be there and take care of them. If one of them was fucked up (yeah, his last superior had put it just like that…had grown up looking out for himself and his siblings), someone had to step up and it never really solved anything for it to be one of the kids. 

Sure, he’d prevented immeasurable pain and suffering for his baby brother. But now, he *had* to choose between a life spent doing just that, taking every blow to spare Thomas, and keeping the family’s dirty secrets to the grave, or living his life like he deserved. 

That was when Grant had decided to do both. Sort his life out, get it straight, and then come home and move Thomas out of that place. He’d been convinced, of course, that nothing would happen to his baby brother while he was gone. Not just because their mother protected him, but because at some point he realized it was more about himself than it had ever been about Thomas. 

How unfair, how dehumanizing it’d be for the kid to ever discover he was threatened and tormented and nearly killed more than once, just to fuck with Grant. But he’d never have to know. Christian was old enough to be seeking a career of his own, and as if to spite their father, he was looking into being the next in a long line of politicians. He definitely had the knack for stretching the truth, though as far as Grant knew most of the men before him had played as honestly as the world allowed. 

Well, soon enough neither he nor Thomas would have to think about it. They’d move away, have their own lives, and leave that circus behind. 

As Garrett had said, Grant had really fucked that up. Really, monumentally, epically, fucked that up. Three days away from completing the program (there was a laundry list of arson charges, along with everything else, that eventually landed him there) the teenager had bailed on the new chance at a better life. 

As the most honest man he’d ever met told him before handing over the receiver, he’d almost not been allowed to answer the call, let alone get the message. It seemed urgent, and the old guy in charge was a bit of a sucker thanks to his past. As he’d warned, he knew that Grant wouldn’t forgive him if this was as dire as it sounded and he hadn’t been allowed to at least listen to Thomas’ call. There were options, though, and they might both be blinded by their experiences and unable to see a better solution. 

***

Christian had been the cruelest during Grant’s last few years in school; and as any kid might do Grant acted out. He’d gotten into a lot of trouble, had been labeled a problem and a threat by the same private school that Christian attended. The situation didn’t approve when he was transferred, when the records of his transgressions against school property, and the opinions of his peers, were buried under red tape (and likely plenty of personal threats from his father, who had dirt on just about everyone).

This is not to say that the majority of the neighborhood, the town, friends of the family, and anyone who’d been to one of Christian’s wild house parties, didn’t know just what went on around there. At least to some extent, most people knew a portion of the truth.

Their mother would be known for her games, likely stopped years earlier, if Christian hadn’t made a reputation of his own. Any guy that dare get near his mom got the living hell beat out of them. She never stopped her eldest son for enacting revenge, even on some of his best friends. A few drinks in her and any teenage boy who looked her way had a chance. Yeah, there had been a few local affairs closer to her own age, but those always seemed to bore her and it could easily be said that she casually let the details slip to her husband just for fun.

Not when it came to the younger men however. Especially friends of her sons, of which Christian somehow had plenty. Grant didn’t socialize much, he had enough on his mind and had already witnessed this game. He had plenty of reasons not to make friends, let alone introduce them to his family. 

While it may have looked like a suicide, the one boy found dead a few days after one of Christian’s ragers, had dared to fight him back when he warned a former pal about the consequences of getting too close. 

Impossible to prove, and more likely to negatively impact himself and Thomas than help the grieving family get some kind of closure, Mrs. Ward and her eldest got away with it. 

Christian was never kind to, or understanding of, Grant. Every time their mother gave him even a vague compliment, he turned his anger on his brother. He was crueler still knowing he couldn’t turn his jealous rage on their younger brother, a fact he made no secret. 

The first time that Christian had been waiting at their mother’s door when Grant slipped out, the former refused to listen to explanation. It didn’t help that she stood in the doorway, vaguely complimenting the middle child and telling him how much she loved him. How good he was. The implications of the simple statement were enough that Christian felt not only justified, but burdened with the need to permanently discourage his brother or destroy him if he couldn’t do that. 

Beaten, bloody, and wanting to pity the eldest boy but sickened with a sudden understanding of why Christian had reacted this way, Grant pushed himself to his feet at the bottom of the stairway and looked into his brother’s eyes. No attempt was made at concealing the truth, it was right there for him to see. Possessive. Jealous. Too far gone to reason with. It was sad, it was pitiful. “I don’t fucking want her. You can have her.” He’d spat. 

Christian stared back, studying, waiting for the joke or evidence of a lie. When he saw none, it somehow still angered him. “She loves you! And you don’t give a shit!” 

Grant had shrugged. No, he didn’t. He never wanted this kind of attention. The only reason he put up with it was that he suspected it was only a matter of time before Thomas was the target. So he spent all of his time keeping them apart one way or another. It was worth it, too late for him but not his little brother. “I hate her.” He whispered. It made his stomach turn, his mouth dry. He almost couldn’t get the words out, fearing she’d overheard and any half-assed attempt to give her the exact kind of attention she demanded would be seen for what it was- his own agenda. 

It took a few days but Christian caught up, understanding that this was, yet again, about Thomas. So he began cornering the little boy, menacing him and waiting for him to scream to Grant. When he did, there’d always be some implement of torture, some plan to carry out what he’d been threatening. 

Grant knew he was falling for it, but Thomas was so terrified if he couldn’t come to his rescue (the one time he’d called Christian’s bluff, right or not) that he did exactly what the older boy wanted. At least it was over quick, as long as their big brother felt like the right one had been hurt enough. 

***

The offer was impossible to resist. Be your own man, never answer to anybody ever again. Just survive the training, impress the tough critic that was Agent Garrett. It’d just get harder later, so he’d better step up. 

At first, the training was laughably easy. Grant knew how this shit worked, and challenged the old guy more than once. “You said it’d be hard.” He’d suggest Garrett was trying to bore him out of the ‘program’. For a few weeks they repeated simple drills that Garrett knew Grant could easily accomplish. It was beginning to feel like that’s all his mentor believed he had in him. 

Out of the blue the training intensified. The recruit was ordered to memorize and repeat complicated procedures. He was given little to no time to prove competency in field operations and a list of general rules and procedures he’d be expected to know in the agency. When one thing was off, Grant didn’t need to be told he’d made a mistake. After all, he was as good as advertised. They both knew that. 

Still, some days his successes would be rewarded. Simple things; tools, quality materials for shelter, access to water purification and cooking implements, the right weapons to hunt wild game worth chasing. Snaring rabbits was time consuming and not all that nourishing when you factored in the amount of work compared to the nourishment provided. Deer, bears, a trip with Garrett in his truck (when he wasn’t coming and going on ‘official’ business his charge didn’t have the ‘clearance’ for yet) to nearby campgrounds. Grant learned how to toy with others, how to read those that wouldn’t fall for the friendly tactics. Those they stole from. 

Grant wouldn’t say anything if Garrett was there to watch but he’d rather sneak around than cause any more harm or terror if he could help it. Then again, one of the most important lessons was not to let your emotions get in the way. Not to get soft. Losers got soft. The dead had been sympathetic and kind, had tried to compromise instead of letting everyone know who was in control.

What had sympathy done for him lately?

There was infinitely more to it than that, but Grant didn’t argue. His mentor assured him at every turn that he was a fit protege. Maybe the best he’d had. When asked about the others, Garrett assured him they’d meet and maybe work together some day.

Punishment for failure was never the same. Some days there was no mention of it at all. Some days, even when Grant knew he’d done a shitty job, even when he tested the limits and *tried* to disappoint his mentor, he was awarded with nothing but compliments. 

Other days he’d be given extra tasks. Sometimes there was a direct correlation with failure and Garrett’s extended absences. Those were tough. The teenager often felt lost, lonely, even when an associate of his mentor would show up to check his progress. Other agents, standard procedure, some of them would explain. Others never said a word, simply observing his activities while taking a few notes. They never showed pleasure or disappointment. 

The easiest disciplinary actions were the kind that hurt. Not extra pull-ups, not a day running through rough terrain soaking wet carrying enough gear for a goddamn army. Not starving and mocked and threatened to be sent back to his family that didn’t give a shit about him and expected him to fail if they hadn’t already found and accepted the bloody scene left back in Massachusetts as proof that Grant was a complete disappointment. No, he’d trade all of that for the kind of reprimand that left a mark. Sometimes he’d be performing perfectly fine, above expectation even, and Garrett would pin him to a tree with a hand around his throat and a gun pressed to his cheek. 

It’d leave Grant breathless, but not for fear of rejection. The violence only proved that his mentor gave a shit enough to get angry. When the teen’s body would tense, when he’d wait for an instruction, or just for the sting of a fresh bruise or cut, John would deliver exactly what he was expecting. 

There were days of intense training that would end exactly the same, but with the added boost of a simple “you’ve done me proud.” The agent explained during one of these advanced training sessions that Grant would be required to withstand pain and torture and keep his shit together. He’d have to keep whatever secrets he’d been entrusted with no matter how harsh the enemy was. The only thing beating the shit out of him during ‘specialist training’ proved was that Garrett believed he was tough enough to take on anything he might face in the field. Other rookies should be so lucky. 

***

“So, who was it?” 

They were making coffee over a campfire, settling down early after a long day of training because Ward had caught and prepared venison for the evening meal. “Beats your shitty protein bars.” The rookie said, passing over a plate and a steaming hot cup.

“No shit.” John winked, appreciating his student’s catch by patting him on the back before diving in. “You didn’t answer my question though. Guess this is a nice enough surprise to let ya off the hook. Unless you feel like telling me.”

For a moment Grant wonders if this is a test, or a game, but after everything this man has done for him, everything they’ve been through, he accepts the line of questioning at face value. He pauses still, waiting for further clarification, just to prove that he’s been absorbing all of John’s lessons. Never give anything up, to anybody, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Or it can be used as an advantage later. 

“Who wasn’t it,” the teenager starts. He wonders if that sounds as whiny out loud as it does in his head. He thinks about his mother, and how she used him to get to Christian. Fuck knows why. Some sick game? Some sick game they both got off on?

The shit that he hated most, aside from all the other ways Christian found to hurt Thomas through him, were the ultimate games. The ones that, no matter how much physical pain he suffered, or how much disgust and shame he could take from it, the most agonizing parts were listening to Thomas scream and cry. Trying to gently comfort him, putting on as brave a face as he could. Grant knew that the only way to get his big brother to free Thomas from Grant’s bedroom closet, without harming him or scaring him further, was to endure a violent rape any time Christian felt like his own standing with their mother was threatened. If she egged him on, if she complimented Grant in any way (not just his ‘skills’ in the bedroom no matter how obvious he made it that he was not a willing participant), Christian thought of more creative torments. 

Grant never saw Christian as an intellectual threat to himself or anyone, but to give credit where it was due, he was either lucky or a sadistic fucking genius. He managed to create the most demeaning and shameful way to violate one brother while scaring the shit out of the one he’d forced to watch from behind a locked closet. First, he learned how to force himself on Grant in a way that minimized damage or pain. One he’d mastered that, he stumbled upon one of Grant’s masturbatory predilections and used that to make the random assaults almost physically pleasurable instead of just tolerable. If the goal was to confuse his brother, it didn’t work. If the goal was to discredit Grant in front of Thomas, well, the older boy didn’t know how much his little brother understood. He just tried like hell not to react in any way, making pain or unsolicited pleasure obvious at all if possible. 

Funny how the body will betray you. Abstractly, sort of fascinating. Grant had read about the phenomena, knew that it meant nothing about how he felt. A body will respond to certain stimuli, like it or not. Psyche be damned. None of that shit really helped in the long run. It was there, waiting in the shadows, to sneak up on him and ask “are you *sure*?” There was more doubt than answer. 

The only sensations he could count on that were solely and completely his idea, his doing, and felt good whether he was doing it to freak Christian out or alone to…vent were one of two things. First, the safety collar he’d bought and often wore…the thing he pretty much couldn’t go without when jerking off if he intended to get off. 

Second, his fixation with fire. He’d inherited (ok, stole, but later been given permission to hang onto before Jack knew what he’d end up doing with it) an old zippo with “WARD” etched onto it. In smaller print, his father, and the two men in the line that came before him, had etched their names. As if any of his siblings would want it, he still didn’t feel quite worthy of adding his own to it. Regardless, Grant fiercely protected that one possession. Not one to start in the shallow end, so to speak, as soon as he thought of doing it he flicked it open and watched the flame burst forth. Several seconds later, he held his bare arm in the flame. 

The pain was probably the worst he’d ever felt, yet something about it left his heart racing. His entire body was buzzing, excited, begging for more. The same excitement came from any fire he started. Hesitant to share this with anyone, or have Christian steal it and warp it for his own gain, he was nevertheless tempted when he caught his big brother napping on the sofa. What the hell he was doing there, sleeping comfortably out in the open with no one around but those he’d hurt…it was just too damn tempting. 

Grant ignited the corner of the blanket draped over Christian, standing behind the couch with the zippo in hand. The reaction was not disappointing. Christian screamed, panicked, had no idea how to put himself out or the flaming throw blanket and sofa. He screamed for help, he screamed accusations, waiting for someone to come along and save him.

He got lucky. Their mother was out, as rare as that might be, but that meant that she’d scheduled a cleaning service and a few cooks she’d send away in time to take credit for all of their hard work. Not that the oldest Ward child hadn’t terrorized these people in other ways, as had their mother, but one of them did come to his rescue.

When it was all over he shrieked and cried and demanded justice. No responsible adult in sight was beyond laying potential blame on him. A small victory perhaps. Strange, considering how Grant stood there quietly and smiled, genuinely looking forward to a time when they’d be alone together in the room. Just long enough to come clean, to see if that bothered Christian as much as having had his beauty rest interrupted. 

Soon he got his wish. The commotion had drawn Thomas out, who hovered by the door, recognizing the shift in power at that moment maybe. As soon as Christian began accusing his brother directly, Grant held the lighter to his arm. 

He waited.

And waited.

Finally the smell of burnt flesh hit Christian’s senses. He screamed, ran upstairs, and remained silent for nearly 24 hours. Grant took care of the first aid himself, assuring his baby brother that they had the run of the place for a little while. 

***

His fascination with fire escalated to the point where the family couldn’t cover for him anymore. Grant made a plea for a correction program, a military school that would help him refocus, face his actions, and possibly give him real opportunities for the future. He was *very* interested in what he could learn there. 

In spite of his mother’s complete meltdown in court, her over-dramatic tears- concern that her baby would someday end up in active duty where his life would be in real danger- the decision was made. The boy had no future if positive changes were not made immediately. 

He thrived in the place they stuck him. Just one episode of ‘testing boundaries’ (a fire to the building where a group counseling session was held every few weeks) before he chose to buckle down and get through this. Maybe he’d even keep his promise and make something of himself here. The way he saw it, there was a chance that a respectable young man who graduated from this place with a commendable record would earn the respect necessary to solve his problems at home.

Grant never thought he’d learn to look up to one of the men in charge. He never would have guessed in his wildest dreams that the man, in return, would find a renewed passion in working with troubled kids who often turned right back to criminal activity when their court mandated time expired. All thanks to Grant fucking Ward. Who would have guessed? And who would have guessed that the teenager opened up to the man, that they had so much in common, and even if he occasionally slipped or felt like giving in, this adult made it his personal responsibility to prevent a backslide. 

***

“But you trashed it all, for what?”

Garrett’s line of questioning would be unnerving if he weren’t right on point. “Good question.” The older man gestures that the kid should continue. “Don’t you already know the answer to this?” 

“I know what the report says. I wouldn’t say I’m fond of following orders but in this case I had to make an exception.” The rookie wonders if he’s earned the privilege to ask for further information. Just what did the report say? Did it imply that he was an asset? Considering Garrett’s specific attention (forget the periods of absence, John was an important man) Grant probably was a highly desirable type of trainee. “Lest it inflate your ego, you aren’t the only candidate. And there’s plenty that’d be less of a pain in the ass than you.”

“So, why?”

John sighs, leaning back against the crudely carved bench, arms folded behind his head. “Woodworking isn’t one of your strong suits kiddo.” The agent makes a spectacle of adjusting until he finds a suitable position. His efforts take a ridiculous amount of time; so much that the younger man has to suppress a laugh at the show. “Well aren’t you relaxed?” 

“Not at all, sir.”

“Well, chill the fuck out. This is easy street now. You’re welcome.” Garrett holds up a palm before Grant can speak. “Please, I’m begging you, don’t turn into one of those goddamn yappy ‘yessir’ fuckers. Be an extraordinary waste of my fucking time.”

The rookie rolls his eyes, turning away from his superior. He’s setting to work on disassembling and cleaning their weapons (a habit that’s already far more ingrained in the young man that his mentor) when Garrett pinches the length of soft leather around Grant’s neck. “Hey!” 

“Yep. They got to ya all right. Unless this isn’t for what I think it is.” The agent still hadn’t let go, his laughter crackling like distant lightning. The older man possessed the ability to draw you in and repulse you simultaneously. Over the weeks of training, getting to know and understand one another, there weren’t many secrets left. 

Hell, it wasn’t even the first time they’d talked about this. Grant remembers that much. The night they’d left, after he accepted Agent Garrett’s offer to join SHIELD (if all the rules were followed and tests passed) they’d shared a beer. Grant never shared that much with peers, family, people he’d fucked. The truth, nearly the entire story, poured out after less than one drink. The kid had been promised that number one on the list of making a well-rounded secret agent out of this mess was to make sure Grant wasn’t a cheap drunk by the time he entered the operations academy. 

“Not very fucking creative jackass.” Trying to laugh it off, Grant goes back to cleaning their weapons, already barely able to contain his excitement at recent news that he’d be trained as a sniper and an explosives expert for his specialist requirements. ‘Everyone has to have…a thing.’ Of course. Mentor and student already had pyromaniac in common, according to the former, making the chosen fields that much more obvious. A significant bonus was that he wouldn’t be passed off to another expert to finish training. Sure, he’d worked with Garrett’s inner circle of experts, though he was hardly fond of most of them.

John’s fingers curl around the collar, tugging out from underneath several layers of clothing. Inspecting it while Grant sits as still as possible, a few more crude jokes are tossed around. Grant answers back with youthful venomous enthusiasm. 

Communication between the two of them had been easy from day one, just like they were old friends, or two versions of the same man. Grant doubted John had the same preferences. First of all, Garrett spent most of his spare time talking about female conquests. The latest fling was the direct cause of a pending 3rd divorce. Yet another marriage dissolving thanks to his lack of willpower barely phased him. If anything, John had a list of PROs outweighing the CONs on a crumpled sheet of paper in his jacket pocket. Once in a while he’d pull the paper out, adding to one side or the other with anything that’d leave a legible mark. Grant was prepared to take the damn thing off his hands, reorder it, if Garrett needed some perspective. 

Neither of them feel the need to talk about that night, other than what Grant has begun to assume are jokes masking awkwardness and nerves. As straightforward a question as “ever sucked a dick before?” might be, there had to be an underlying struggle or shame there. Grant was highly intelligent, well read, and had grown up gay in a neighborhood where perfection was currency. Even in his generation, the slightest deviation meant one must be flawless in all other aspects of life. 

Agent John Garrett, former career military, and from the deep south if his accent and common speech had anything to say about it, had been born in a time when landing anywhere on the queer spectrum meant complete ostracizisation. Alone an unfortunate outcome. A clumsy pass at the first person who he’d ever been able to relate to on a personal level was understandable. Saying it aloud wouldn’t be fair, but it was kind of…pitifully endearing? Damn it, considering the shitheads Grant recalled having consensual sex with, John was a major improvement. 

***

This is the part most of SHIELD knows. They’ve never made it simple for Grant to put his head down and finish his assignments. When the agent isn’t on a side mission for John Garrett, he’s SHIELD all the way through.

No point in judging the other specialists that side-eye him. Grant would do the same in their position. Everyone around the agency was that damn paranoid. Forget about the cold war, forget about either side, the nature of the game was to be suspicious of everyone. Life is easier as a SHIELD agent if you manage to convince your colleagues that you, especially, should make them nervous. 

Grant will readily admit that Agent Romanova has more reason to be excused of her past than he does. Any crime he committed was of free will, most of which he’s proud of. 

The moments that Phil Coulson, or Maria Hill, love to bring up over and over again without ever actually dropping a detail are essentially centered on one evening. Or a 3 day drive, sleepless, fueled only by the sudden clarity that came with the decision to finish it. 

His mentor at the time had fielded the call from a hysterical Thomas. How he got the number wasn’t important at the time, though whenever Grant had a low moment Garrett liked to remind him that the entire Ward clan was out to get him. How did he knew Thomas hadn’t been in on the plot? They’d fought about that, came to blows, and when it was all over Grant was still in denial and John was still quite convinced. 

The only sign Grant showed that he even considered the suggestion more than a pointless shit-stirring insult was how little he used his vast SHIELD resources to keep an eye on Thomas Ward (alive and well with a respectable career…he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know).

Not a moment’s hesitation had kept him from convincing a man who could lose everything into loaning him a car for the next few days. Grant swore he’d drive it back, be there in time to officially accept whatever counted as graduation around there. Assured that he’d done more than enough to qualify, and that a wonderful surprise awaited him when all had been sorted out, was quickly forgotten over the course of the exhausting trip. 

If it made his peers feel safer, they could consider what might’ve been going through a young man’s head at the time. For the most part he noticed that his fellow specialists weren’t shy with their opinions. The moment he’d walked onto the operations academy grounds the news had already spread. 

It was quite ‘old school’ to conduct one-on-one specialist training before the basic training and learning programs offered by the academy. There were plenty of chances to acquire useful field skills (some rather unexpected- ballroom dancing for example), as well as the fundamental preparation for any further training a student might qualify for based on their performance. 

No matter what they had to say about it, what whispers followed him through his near perfect performance in academy as well as John’s glowing recommendations that the kid be put right into solo undercover work. It varies, but generally the assignment folders come with elimination targets. Grant understood that sometimes the world was a better place without certain people.

Grant had burned his bed once, with himself and Christian in it. If it killed them both, so be it. The target had ultimately been his older brother. There’d be no more games to play without Christian in the middle. This was for Thomas.

The specialist had never fully realized his first attempt. In short, he’d fucked it up. Meaning to burn Christian inside the house, maybe himself with him. His older brother was too selfish to gain any satisfaction in knowing that Grant had planned to have to die with him to get rid of him. If Grant were really lucky, their mother would be there too. 

Thomas had been instructed to find a place to stay. Anywhere, it didn’t matter. Just don’t be home. 

Grant had been overtired, emotional, and already feeling defeated when he attempted to set the fire. This would not be his first structure. Nothing should have gone wrong. 

Later he’d swear to the cops, almost convinced himself that he had come to shoot his older brother. He didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. 

Whatever went wrong triggered the house alarms. Police and fire were automatically called. In the time it took for emergency crews to arrive, what little blaze the teen had set had been drowned out by the house sprinkler system. 

The only person to even suffer a burn was Grant himself. A decade later there’d still be scars littered halfway up his left arm. He’ll never remember feeling the injury as it happened. It took years and a couple of corrective surgeries to avoid difficulty in range of movement or other complications.

Christian had ran out of the house screaming. If Grant had had anything to say in his own defense, he never got the chance. His father was away at the time; the authorities spent half the night guarding his hospital room, uninjured arm cuffed to his bedside, while they attempted to contact Jack. 

Their mother wouldn’t speak to him, or allow Thomas to see him. That was fine, he’d seen the kid’s face as they secured him and drove away. Christian had held tightly to his mother and little brother, playing the man of the house, while screaming “you ruined everything!” He had a point, Grant could admit that. 

At the hospital, his only visitor waited until the authorities were distracted (maybe he paid them off, Grant didn’t really know or care). Christian just wanted to assure his little brother that the family, especially Thomas, would be “taken care of” for him. “You’re never coming home, I’ll make sure of that Grant. For Thomas. He’ll need me. I really wish you hadn’t fucked up, Grant. We’re going to miss you.”

Grant didn’t say a word, couldn’t speak with more than a harsh whisper. Instead he just waited for the little bastard to get closer. Still not feeling the severity of his injury, Grant tried to grab his big brother, slap that smug smile off of his face with his free arm. It wouldn’t cooperate, and the last he remembers of being face to face with his family is fading away with the heavy-duty pain killers they’d pumped into his system. 

Time flew by after that. The time to defend himself was long over. He’d really fucked up, and Christian threw everything he could at the case. Independently he came after Grant with high priced lawyers and a slew of character witnesses- students their age, families from the neighborhood, and every police officer in the state that had ever picked him up for even the slightest infraction. 

In the few weeks he spent in the high security facility before Garrett broke him out, he never saw or heard from his family again. So with his mentor’s advice, he used the new assignment (whatever side his only supporter said he was operating for) to start a clean slate. Just like Garrett promised, he’d never be weak again. He would be strong, be his own man. And he owed it all to John Garrett.

**Author's Note:**

> I may be writing a part 2 of this in the future.


End file.
